Elia talked a lot.
He talked while he walked, while he ate, while he drew, while he looked for his shoes. He had words for everything: for clouds, for bread, for stones, for seagulls.
His grandmother liked listening to him, but every now and then she said, “Leave some room for silence too.”
Elia did not understand. Silence seemed to him like an empty room.
One evening they went to the beach. The Moon was high and the sea made a slow sound. Elia began at once:
“Look at that boat, look at that star, I think tomorrow it will rain, Grandma, do you know that today...”
Grandmother bent down and picked up a white shell.
“This keeps silence safe.”
Elia laughed. “Shells keep the sea.”
“Put it to your ear, but first do not speak for three breaths.”
Three breaths were an enormous amount. Elia tried.
First breath: he heard the sea.
Second breath: he heard the wind among the reeds.
Third breath: he heard a tiny tic tic under the sand. It was a little crab walking.
The shell, close to his ear, was not empty. Inside it there was a deep sound, like a faraway road.
“Grandma, I...”
Grandmother placed a finger on her lips. Not to silence him harshly, but to invite him to stay a little longer.
Elia listened.
He heard his own belly moving. He heard a dog barking far away. He heard his grandmother breathing. All things that his words had covered before.
The shell spoke softly.
“Silence does not send words away. It washes them.”
Elia opened his eyes wide.
When at last he spoke, he said only, “It’s beautiful.”
Grandmother smiled. “See? Two right words.”
From that evening Elia kept the shell on his bedside table. He did not stop talking. Words were a happy part of him. But he learned to leave three breaths of space first.
At school, when he wanted to answer immediately, he touched his pocket and imagined the shell. At home, when his mother was tired, he lowered his voice. With friends, he listened until the end.
He discovered that silence was not empty.
It was a small beach where words could arrive cleaner.